Salt
by Mystikat
Summary: You reap what you sow: Jet chases after something that can't be caught. [Jet x Katara]


**Salt**  
_dis.claimed._

**1. **

Katara begins her stay with them by out-casting herself almost immediately. Which is hard, considering the nature of this band is one of misfits and dysfunction and general acceptance for those who only ever knew isolation. She wants none of their welcome. She goes about her business as if her business wasn't all about them and holds her head so high Jet can swear he can see her brain up her nostrils - until she notices him looking and there's the duck of the head, an averted gaze and picking up the pace to be Anywhere But Here.

Jet doesn't like the aftertaste she leaves - all of the bitter with none of her accustomed sweet - and sometimes wishes that the Avatar had sent someone with less history with them (him) to be their keeper. He sometimes wishes he'd sent the brother instead of the sister – at least then he'd get the confrontation he's looking for (_rip off the scab right quick, rip it off because the infection never let it heal quite right, rip it off and start over like you never caused the initial wound to begin with…_) – Jet doesn't regret things most days, but that doesn't mean he's not tossing and turning most nights.

**2. **

So she resists the natural flow of their home. She doesn't don their makeshift camouflage or indulge in banter or allow any causal touching – any touching at all (this is the hardest part, he knows, she could be icy as all Spirits with them and the boys needed the assurance that she had some warmth about her still, they needed to touch each other like they needed their mothers and fathers – they needed to touch each other to keep warm and Katara doesn't know and turns to her heavy furs like they can do anything about what her heart needs).

She doesn't allow them to leak into her temporary nest among their treetops – any toy or spear or parchment misplaced among her things is always returned before it has any time to endear itself to her. Jet bites his tongue and watches his Freedom Fighters resist her resistance – littering her keep with bits and pieces of them. And she, she does not misplace her things, even if the Avatar seems to have misplaced her.

**3. **

She is there for a reason, he knows, to organize them for the final confrontation with the Fire Lord – because the Avatar needs all the help he can get, whether they be traitors or exiles or ragtag groups of children – and even if they are all of the above. Jet resents that they are considered untrustworthy enough to need a babysitter and resents the pointed message of Katara's presence and her spite, but he can feel tremors in his hands when he thinks about what he has to tolerate this for and swallows his resentment that tastes faintly of revenge and victory and _destiny_. He swallows, and is not full even with such a course as this, and looks to Katara as if he'd gulp her down and his belly might be satisfied then – she'd taste something like atonement, he knows. His teeth ache at this idea of such a frozen treat just as a low growl sounds in his abdomen. He looks away.

**4.**

Her hands smooth out the crinkled paper that they must have studied over a hundred times already (or rather, she'd studied as he'd noticed how the fine hairs on her neck stood up whenever he leant in over her shoulder to catch whatever new detail needed to be worked out) and she is as careful with it as she is not to meet his stare. He wants to reach over, recklessly, and brush her wrist as he points out some other supposed flaw – maybe linger a bit too long there, slip his fingers in such a way that would give him idle access to her pulse and then, then he'd encircle his prize and bring his lips to those little blue veins; make her shiver in the way that has nothing to do with winter, or needing more furs – but the plan is perfect in every way they can control, with a back-up for their back-ups and in a week they will be on their way to test out just how much they'd perfected it. Right now he wants to concentrate on her, and point out flaws that he can smooth out like she does crinkled paper and prove to her that he was, at least, not lying about this at that time.

He hesitates just long enough for her to move away and there is so much space between them that he cannot help but feel smothered. Jet leaves the hut and Katara watches – if he'd turn around just then he might have caught her eyes.

**5.**

Katara steps into his room on the eve of their departure to head toward the eve of what is to be the last battle and manages to look like she belongs there. She kneels down just inside the doorway and settles her hands on her knees – very formal, an obvious contrast to his ease (never mind how stiff his back has become at her abrupt entree) – and tells him in short order, "I could have really loved you, you know. Back then."

"Oh? Like you weren't halfway there already before your brother opened his big mouth." She has put him on the defensive in an instant – he cannot be faulted for anything he says after such a proclamation; so loaded with regret and blame. So, as an after thought, "And even then."

She does not take the bait, but shrugs off the top of her robe in such a polished matter that he would've accused her of practicing if he'd had the spit left to speak. He does not even bother with any pretense of relaxation – this is too much, his muscles are so tense they just might shatter under the strain, there is so much more at danger here, though, than just a few muscles.

"This," Katara pulls her arms out of the sleeves and presses one across her belly; a hand tentatively sliding under a breast as if in offering, "is all I can let you have now."

Jet waits for the punch line. Waits for his Freedom Fighters to bust in and unmask this pseudo-Katara. Waits for Fire Lord Ozai to slit his throat and congratulate her on an excellent distraction in the same motion. Waits for this to be over and just wake _up_ already like so many times before. Mostly, he waits her to sneer and stand and leave him coiled and about to snap and then she'd go and say, "But maybe it's just too late for you, Jet."

The other shoe has yet to fall, and Jet begins to suspect that this is no joke. He also begins to suspect that the blush on her face is determined to travel all the way down, and his fingers twitch in anticipation at the thought of tracing its path. He stays where he is. She hasn't come to him in a forgiving mood and most definitely not a forgetting one – and he can already feel the curve of her against his hand, and how she'll lean her body into his one way while she retreats in another and he wonders if that brief reprieve would be worth risking what he really desires from her. But – he could have her tonight, now, and maybe it would be enough – more than he could ever hope to have if he does not take the chance she is presenting him. Still – he wants more; would never be content with half-hearted moans and a girl who seems to think that sating his lust will bring closure to what is open and raw and festering between them – _rip it off and clean it properly this time or it will lose you an arm and a leg and a girl with brown skin who needs so much more than furs at night_.

He goes to her, mirroring her position on his knees and reaching over to cover her once more in her discarded sleeves. Katara furrows her brow at him; in fury, or rejection, or humiliation and he tugs her to him before she has the chance to curl into herself – an embrace; quick, chaste and she is released. He leans in to press his mouth to her ear, "Come back when you have the time to stay more than a night," And at her responding shudder thinks to himself that he has always been a gambling man – it's about time it started to pay off.


End file.
